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Supper-time.

My wife enjoys entertaining, I enjoy good conversation. Nine cases out of ten the two go rather well together.

Anyway, it was Saturday night at the Rucks – supper-time. As usual the missus did her thing with the grub, while I looked on and admired.

I’ve always found admiration to be the most admirable of qualities where hanging around a kitchen is concerned; anything else strikes me as far too demanding. Some things really are best left to the female of the species – thought I’d get that in just to annoy all those haute cuisine feminists out there.

The guests were of a distinctly eclectic hue – I’m trying to get bloody clever with my vocabulary now, ignore it – one English, one Scot (no doubt peeling an orange in his pocket with a boxing glove on, you know what they’re like, oh and he will probably tuck his own bottle of Mateus Rosé at the back of the booze tray and hope to God that it will remain untouched, so that he can take it home with him to be used at another supper-time, the mean bastard), one American and one……well I’m not too sure about his provenance, he was English, of the Surrey variety, but has been a native of the Eastern seaboard of America for some 35 years, so maybe he’s a cross between a Pilgrim Father and an itinerant immigrant, you figure it out.

The pure English and American varieties were female and I have to say thoroughly charming, although I think the English lady had been a recent victim of hairdresser insanity – her multi coloured hairdo was as striped as a badgers bum but we won’t go onto that.

So there we all were, as usual bobbing up and down in the kitchen (why bother having sitting-rooms one may well ask), picking away at some sushi (take that for Lidl’s smoked salmon European left overs) and hitting the booze like there was no tomorrow.

Now as far as I am concerned, a successful supper-time relies entirely on the state of one’s guests at around 1.00 am. If they can’t move or speak, job done as they say.If one of the guests suggests some wife swapping, then most definitely job done, although this of course depends on the state of his wife – he could be seeking a happy release, I mean have you seen the state of some of these middle-aged wives? Orange County they certainly are not! Although to be fair, who would want a woman with a rubber bosom, a voice that could stop a gay chat show host in his tracks and a face that would stretch the fat arse of a Sumo wrestler, you tell me.

Well, the night progressed in its own inimitable way. The men disappeared for some air, a cigar (it still happens you know, although on this occasion I was the only smoker) and a few bottles of port while the ladies stayed in the kitchen and put the world to rights.

You know, I’ve always believed that if women ruled the world it would be a more peaceful place…..providing they didn’t rule on period days that is!

By 2.00 am, one couple had fallen asleep on a settee, another couple had been unable to get passed the front door and my dear wife and I?………..well, we just went to bed thinking ‘another successful supper-time, middle-agers still know how to enjoy themselves and maybe the young and celebrities don’t rule the world after all’.

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I am the author of four novels to date: Ragged Cliffs, Inheritance Lost and An Equal Judge make up the Treharne Saga, and my latest novel, The Bent Brief, tells the story of a lawyer who accidentally kills his wife when he finds her in bed with another woman.
My upcoming novels, The Silver Songsters and All Gas No Oil are to be published over the next 18 months.
Follow the link to my website at the top of this page to read the first chapters of all 6 novels.

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